Strands of Fate
by AKAAkira
Summary: If Keima was the web's centre, then his inexistence left the girls as frayed silk strands, floating alone and listless in the wind. No one really anticipated, however, that all it took was just one itsy-bitsy spider, before the remnants were connected into a beautiful deathtrap again.
1. Too Pretty to be a Hobo

**Summary**: If Keima was the web's centre, then his inexistence left the girls as frayed silk strands, floating alone and listless in the wind. No one really anticipated, however, that all it took was just one itsy-bitsy spider, before the remnants were connected into a beautiful deathtrap again.

Takes place in various different time periods within an Alternate Reality.

**Disclaimer: The World God Only Knows is owned by Tamiki Wakaki. I own absolutely nothing in relation to this work, except for the plot of this particular story.**

_**Chapter Laconic: A homeless girl and an aged artist find more in common than they realize.**_

* * *

**Too Pretty to be a Hobo**

As far as trails went, this dirt path was very unusual indeed.

One end exited by a rare oak tree childishly vandalized with several swear words and hearts containing the names of would-be hopefuls, located inside one of Maijima City's only natural parks, this one currently being lobbied to be cut down for a new mall. The other end transformed into a farmland-bordered side road which hosted only one telephone box in its entire span of several of kilometres through a town that many city teenagers colloquially referred to as "The Middle of Nowhere". And smack dab in the middle sat a girl too pretty to be a hobo but was.

It was a trail that the senile sculptor used often – today for a local _otaku_ convention that marked the man's first time at such a thing – but he had never seen as odd a sight as this. So he did the one thing that seemed to make sense to teenagers nowadays.

He sat down and talked anime.

More specifically, he exhibited one of the samples that he had constructed and was planning to sell: an intricately detailed and vibrantly painted replica of a fire truck that was the length of the girl's hand. The man was delighted to find that his audience received his model exuberantly.

"Oooh!" she squealed, her eyes as starstruck as the night sky. "Oooooh! This is so amazing! It's so red…so cool…so squeaky!"

Indeed it was, for Elucia de Rute Irma was currently rolling the fire truck back and forth on her palm, which made the sound of the wheels turning very audible.

If only he had been so close to his own kin…

"Ho ho ho! You think _that_'s impressive?" the grandpa boomed, feeling the need to act like a mad scientist showing off his newest mecha. "But that's not all it can do! Feast your eyes on – _this_!"

With well-practiced moves, the old man sequentially slid and clicked open the impressively crafted parts, transforming the toy model into an actual mecha-like being and making that much more apparent the brand on the verge of having its trademark infringed.

To his surprise, the girl looked disappointed. "Whaa~? But I liked the fire truck better!"

He had no need to act overdramatic, but he did. "Hm?! Impossible! My grandson loved these kinds of models!"

It should be noted here that while both are considered "animesque", he was making an unfair comparison between a show about cars transforming into robots and _galge_. It was just another thing that this grandpa never had learned from his descendant when he had the chance, unfortunately.

Not that it mattered to the girl. "Is this how you turn it back?" she asked, tugging at what she thought was a part that moved.

This action was enough to immediately wipe out the old man's antics. "Uh, wait a moment –"

_It's made completely out of clay_ was what he would have said had the fact not become readily evident by the breast piece snapping off.

That sound echoed in his mind for a long moment. The old man stared, wide-eyed and bile suddenly threatening to rise in his throat, at that broken piece in the girl's hand and remembered. The past few weeks, sunken in the deepest levels of despair. Weeks of molding and painting, hurting and working, trying to push everything out of his mind and stop _thinking_. A young man, passed on long before he had any right to be. The final models, a tribute to his memory. The torso with a gaping hole.

Then he shook it off, turning back to the girl.

"Oh no!" One might wonder how she didn't get whiplash from the emotional one-eighty of happy to upset, but she managed it, looking adorably apologetic all the same. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I – I'll pay for this! Please, let me make it up to you!"

The grandpa heavily doubted she had the money to back up the comment, but tried to put a smile onto his face, all the same. "Ah – that's all right. It was only one model –"

And then he immediately choked on his words, because Elsie pulled out not one, not two, but _five_ ten-thousand yen bills from somewhere and offered them to him. "I-is this enough?"

"You – what –?"

The girl cringed. "I'm so sorry! This is all I have!"

The old man's first thought was that this girl must have a death wish. _This is all I have_, she said – and she was giving it all _away_? What about _her_? Did she not think of how long could she sustain herself on food bought with that money? How much clothes she could buy to keep herself warm in the coming winter? Instead of looking after herself, the girl was offering _him_ what must be the last of the money she had saved up?

Did she want to die?

Most people would've been angry. They'd tell her to keep the money, buy some common sense, and don't be so stupid the next time around because there _will_ be scum who'll take her up on that offer.

But for him, her pleading expression was just the last in a surprisingly brutal series of emotional gut-punches. The innocence reminded him – and hurt him. With a snap, the despair, the sadness, that he had barely chained for the past weeks broke free. It swept through him like a torrent, filling his every thought, fueled by rage for the unreasonable mortality of youth.

He started to cry.

Elsie was taken aback. "Um – mister? Are you hurt?"

The man gestured for her to stop, for once feeling entirely his age. Tears rolled down his face for a while before he sat down heavily, leaning on a tree. Hesitantly, Elsie crouched down beside him, trying to offer what comfort she could.

"I had a grandson, once," he confessed, quite out of the blue. "He died."

The man took his glasses off with trembling hands. "I – I miss him. He was – he was around your age, maybe a little older. The tyke always puzzled me, he has, going around with that gadget shenanigan of his. Never – never really lifting his head and looking at the beautiful – _beautiful_ – world around him. Whenever I tried to pull him out of it, he'd bite back. My wit met its end every time he was involved. But – but, it was one of his charming points – it always has been his charming point, that smart mouth of his. I never knew what he was talking about – and I thought that, I thought that it meant he was going to be a great man because _he knew so much more than me_!

"I **hate** it! I despise, with every year I've lived on this Earth, how much my grandson lost when he died! His charming personality – his grand knowledge – his life, every decade he had left! Why was _he_ the first to go – why _him_, and not _me_? Old dogs are the ones to lie down and rest. The millennium belonged to the children! That's how it should have been! That's how…that's how it…should have been…

"…If there's anything I learned about this…it's that I'm scared. Scared for young men dying while old men still walked." The man looked up, right to Elsie's eyes. "So please, little girl. Please. For me. Please don't be so eager to throw your life away…"

It took Elsie some time to reply. She didn't completely understand what the man was trying to say – the least of reasons being that _she_ didn't quite equate money with her life, and demons don't exactly die easily. Yet, at the same time, she understood that the man was sad, and, for whatever reason, this sadness was similar to hers. In her mind, the least she could do was to let him know he was not alone.

"I had a partner once…" she slowly started, looking at the ground. "I didn't know him that long. I couldn't understand him, so I never knew why he was mad at me. But he was way more mature than I am. He liked to play, but in school he was able to do anything he needed to. His methods were weird, but he always seemed in control. That one time I met him, I just felt…small. I thought he was going to be a great partner.

"That's why I was so sad…when I couldn't protect him. And I knew…it was my fault, that I couldn't protect him. If only I was as good as he was…except better…it wouldn't have happened. I thought that I had to get better. I _had_ to. I don't know how, but…that time hurt so much that I wanted anything…and _everything_… that would make it so that I'll never see another buddy suffer.

"I decided… If God is willing to give me another chance…I'll take it, and hang on with all my might."

She looked back at him. And that was when she realized – she saw the same thing in his eyes that he had seen in hers. The thing they both knew they had.

A soul of the alone.

And then they reached an understanding, a consensus – an emotional enlightenment.

The man shakily got to his feet. "M-my daughter-in-law doesn't visit me anymore. And my wife's back is getting worse every day. A helping hand…would be really appreciated. And while I'm at it, I don't have a successor to my sculpting techniques – I can't be choosy anymore, can I?"

"I don't have a home right now," the girl said softly, as if that wasn't obvious. "But I'm good at cooking and cleaning, and I promise to work really, really hard. If you're patient with me, I can learn anything."

"I can teach you." The man offered a hand.

She gently, delicately, wonderingly – grasped it. "Then…I'm in your care."

And that was how they left: slow but sure, down the trail to the future.

They only got as far as two steps, however, before Elsie suddenly jerked to a halt. "Oh yeah! We shouldn't go to Maijima!"

"Eh? Why?"

"Well…" The girl scratched her head quizzically. "My friend Haqua told me that, any day now, all of Hell is going to break loose in Maijima City."

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_**Endnote: I've been sitting on this chapter for a while. I actually meant to release it only when all the chapters were done, and I'm not even half done yet (about a fourth), but I figured I might as well take the publicity from the upcoming season while it lasts.  
**_

_**This is, in essence, a collection of one-shots for various girls involved with Keima, if Keima had never conquered them. Some happy, some sad, some fun, and some just plain weird. I'll try to update once or twice a week, but, eh, I think people know my tardiness too well by this point...  
**_

_**Though, you probably already saw that the situation isn't as simple as "if Keima had never conquered them". And I say a collection of one-shots, but…**_


	2. Just One Insult Short

**Disclaimer: The World God Only Knows is owned by Tamiki Wakaki. I own absolutely nothing in relation to this work, except for the plot of this particular story.**

_**Chapter Laconic: The human rocket hits its final target and explodes.**_

* * *

**Just One Insult Short**

Takahara Ayumi's "Worst Day in a Lifetime" award unanimously went to the day she skipped out on a track meet by faking an injury – the same track meet in which her school had its collective butt handed back on a platter, with a side of fries. Shamed and guilt-ridden, Ayumi swore to never again disappoint either her teammates or herself, and threw herself into training for next year's meet.

Nothing in the following year came close to feeling as terrible as that day, but they did easily take spot numbers 2 to 365 on her growing list of bad days. It wasn't so much that her teammates blamed her, though some did, like the two senpais who _used_ to criticize her inclusion in the team in the first place. It was more like misfortune was piling upon her every moment. Her family told her to quit running. Her friends left her when she had no time for them. No matter how hard she tried, her time _still_ didn't improve.

She tried to remain upbeat, she really did. And then her friend Chihiro tried to confront her about it. In the end, she lashed out, viciously.

Her time was still stuck at 10.80 seconds for a standard run.

To make matters worse, the same teacher who had scouted her had moved on – to a first-year who used to be in a different sport, had only switched sports because she no longer had a place to train, and had been met with considerably more fanfare than Ayumi ever had been. If the third-year wasn't angry before, she was infuriated now; she was still the fastest runner in the club, lack of improvement notwithstanding, but only Miyako (now the captain) appeared to know this.

And eventually, it all got to her. So fed up with the oversaturated grandstanding to the newcomer, yet so _starved_ for _praises_ to for _once_ _go her way_, Ayumi finally snapped and challenged the newcomer to a hundred-metre sprint.

Ayumi won. The end.

Or so she had thought.

Slowly, as if coming out of a long dream, Ayumi realized with irritation that scores of club members were flocking to the newcomer, congratulating her on an excellent try and prematurely welcoming her to the team. It wasn't she thought would happen. It wasn't what she _wanted_ to happen. Aside from Miyako, no one even glanced Ayumi's way – and even with her only friend, who _should have been on Ayumi's side_, the glance was more akin to frustration of one who finally lost her patience.

Bewildered, resentful, and rapidly approaching murderous, Ayumi was just one insult short of tipping over the edge. This insult came in the form of her competitor's time.

11.02 seconds.

A milestone that had taken Ayumi all three years of middle school to make, which the newcomer managed to accomplish in two weeks' practice.

Perhaps Miyako had noticed the sound of the stopwatch hitting the ground, because in the next moment the captain was standing before the winner. "Ayumi –"

The fastest runner on the team shoved the captain away and made a beeline for the first-year.

A few people who saw this spectacle started whispering excitedly. Those around the first-year girl paled and backed off when they noticed Ayumi approaching. The girl herself remained unaware, still catching her breath, until Ayumi's hand caught her shoulder and clamped down hard.

"S-senpai?"

The scared look on the girl's face was oddly reminiscent of something, and it took Ayumi a moment to remember what. It was the expression that most of the track girls had made, last year, when they were confronted by a certain pair of third-years – the very same who had bullied Ayumi.

This realization only served to incense her further, and she grabbed the first-year's other shoulder as well, making the poor girl flinch.

"Ayumi –!" Miyako began again, and probably would have continued with something generic like _Step away from the girl_ had Ayumi not already interrupted.

"Take my place on the team."

It was like the school had exploded, so stunned was the group. Five full seconds of silence passed before the girl finally managed out an "E-excuse me?"

Ayumi's grip tightened, heedless of the pained yelp from the other girl. "_Take my place on the team!_" she screamed, causing those last few teammates who tried to remain within the blast radius of Ayumi's wrath to flee. "What more clarification do you need!? Go on, take them all! The stupid title, the stupid privileges, and the stupid _responsibility_ – you don't deserve any of them, but take them anyway!

"And while you're at it, you might as well steal my dreams, too! The track meet tomorrow – I spent every single minute I had for the last _year_ just for tomorrow –" Ayumi barked out a short laugh, which certainly didn't help her image of sanity at the moment. "Do you know how _much_ I regret it? First year – wasn't on the team. Second year – couldn't participate. _Didn't_ participate! And now, tomorrow, I could've finally made right everything that should've happened a year ago, except I wouldn't even be able to enjoy the one moment that matters to me most because everyone's busy tripping over a first-year newbie who would – no, who's _going _to – make a mess of things if she was running in my place!

"But you know what? You may as well run anyways!" The voice, raging like a storm, finally started to shake. Ayumi blinked back furious tears, and kept on _talking_ trying to calm herself _down_ yet fearing the cost of stopping _now_. "You may as well run anyways – I saw your time. It sucks. You're freaking slow. But you can improve. You _have_ improved.

"I **can't**!

"Eighteen years old – and I've already peaked! Yeah, I can win tomorrow – but how am I supposed to go on? What can I possibly do to compete in college, with people who can only get better and better? When I can't improve, can I ever go to the next level, start running for real? If tomorrow is the last real win I'll have in my life…should I still want tomorrow?

"But _I don't want my dreams to end!_

"I wanted to run forever! I wanted to keep on moving, and never look back! I wanted to be the best at the thing I loved the best…! But stupid reality just had to butt in. I'll never achieve my dreams, not like this. But if _I_'ll never achieve my dreams, then I'll just have to _cheat_!

"_You_ do it!

"My work, my position, my dreams – take them all and _laugh_! Tomorrow's not going to be this funny – not when _I'm_ done with you! My replacement is going to be fully _qualified_ to be so, whether you like it or not! For my dreams – I'm not going to accept anything less than the fastest runner in Japan – no, the faster runner in the _world_! You hear me?" When the girl didn't respond, Ayumi shook her furiously. "_Do you hear me!?_"

The younger girl's mouth was opening and closing so erratically, it seemed as if she was a broken windup toy. Ayumi was only just beginning to realize she had gone too far when the other girl finally – and with no certainty – nodded. "I…" she began. "I know what it feels like, to lose your dreams. It's like the world is ending – and for you, it must have felt like that for a time. You…" The girl smiled wryly. "You did go a little overboard, senpai. But if this is all that you request out of me…I would be glad to live out your dreams for you."

For the first time, Ayumi's sturdy legs suddenly felt as if it would give any second. Her dream safely passed on, it was like the sky had been lifted from her shoulders and she was only just learning how light she really was. And although she didn't know it, her Weiss had just been forcibly ejected from her body. In a few more minutes at the girls' changing room, when she finally registered everything that had transpired, she would finally pass out.

At the moment however, Ayumi kept herself composed by sheer will. She laughed weakly as a thought occurred to her. "Y-you know…we…we never introduced ourselves, did we?" She stepped back and gave a light, but very relieved, bow. "I'm Takahara Ayumi…your new coach!"

The younger girl bowed far more deeply, and then smiled with radiance. "I'm your new…student, I guess. My name…is Ikoma Minami."

* * *

_**Endnote: Yeah, so much for twice a week.**_


	3. Head Held High

**Disclaimer: The World God Only Knows is owned by Tamiki Wakaki. I own absolutely nothing in relation to this work, except for the plot of this particular story.**

_**A/N Laconic summary: The rich girl takes her hero's words too obsessively to be healthy.**_

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**Head Held High**

If she hadn't crashed into someone, Aoyama Mio would still be walking down the street, her head held high.

Of course, it was in no way _her_ fault – the crash, that is. Mio was a respectable daughter of a highly prestigious family, and had been raised since birth to never slip up or make errors, which was more than could be said for those lower-classed peasants who always seemed _content_ in their mistakes. That's why Mio felt she was entirely in her place when she let the other girl have it.

"Watch it, commoner!" she harshly barked. "Your father did not raise you to be an imbecile! You have eyes for a reason!"

The other girl only cowered back. "Wah! I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I promise I won't do it again!"

Mio grunted in anger and studied the other girl more closely. She had long black hair and a short _yukata_-like wear, which looked strange with a pink, floating scarf. By her feet was a broomstick. An Oriental-style maid? A servant, then. Not even worthy of her attention.

"Consider yourself lucky," Mio huffed, turning away. "If my father was here, he'd have your name and fire everyone connected to you within five generations in an instant."

"Eh~? What's wrong with your father?"

Unfortunately, there was no way Mio could dismiss that remark. She rounded back furiously on the girl, who flinched away again. "How dare you! My father was an important man, and one of the ten richest people in the world! How dare you ignore his achievements?"

Now, if the other girl was a normal person with average intelligence she might've commented that she didn't even know Mio's name yet. The other girl was, in fact, a ditzy demon who was, while eager to please, somewhat dim. On the other hand, this did not mean that she had no capacity to make sharp observations (however accidental). "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! It's just that…well…" She lowered the arms she had been using to shield herself from the short girl with platform shoes and a temper tantrum. "You said 'father' so many times already, I thought you had a fight with him or something…"

It was a fairly impressive feat that Mio managed to restrain her anger, instead turning it into calculation. She ran another look over the girl's strange attire, and snorted. They were tidy, true, but they were also worn away. Mio hated that almost as much as dirt-ridden clothes. "Where did you get your clothes? Charity?"

Elsie glanced down once, then up again, not understanding.

Mio drew out several bills. "_This_ is my allowance," she said, carelessly waving them at the other girl's face. There were only five slips. Each of them, however, was clearly a ten thousand yen note.

There were a lot of things one could say. A glance at Mio's own clothes revealed a tad of an inconsistency. Her school uniform was dirtied, like it had rained muck one day but they hadn't bothered to make an appointment with a washing machine. On the other hand, the bills were crisp, like they had just been freshly printed. The average person might wonder why Mio did not simply use the money for a change of clothes.

Elsie didn't make that connection, and remained silent.

"That's how important my father is," Mio said. "Don't be impressed. The money I got this week is already half spent, so this is all I have left."

This was a blatant lie. The only money she had spent this year was more than a week ago, when she blew out 10000 yen for _yakisoba_ bread at her school; another show of nonexistent wealth. The money she had currently, she had broken out from her mother's safe. That safe had been there ever since Mio's father's death. Every yen was supposed to be saved up for Mio's post-secondary education. They were the future that her mother tried to earn with blood, sweat and tears – and a sleepless, thankless eighty-hours-a-week job shifts that she had only held onto through sheer determination and great love for her daughter.

Mio let go.

Though startled, Elsie caught the bills before they could get dropped into a sewer or worse. She made a questioning sound, and looked up, but Mio was already walking away, her head held high.

"Get some new clothes," she called over her shoulder, before leaving.

She didn't wait for the other girl to thank her.

Mio felt pretty smug about the impression she left on the poor girl, but as the road dragged on, that smugness turned to weariness. There was only so much she could endure with platform shoes. They strained her ankle, bit them, and alarmingly, bled them. Nevertheless, she kept moving forward.

It was one of the lessons that her late father impressed on her, for as long as she could remember. _Always keep walking,_ he would say._ Our family must weather storm of the gods and fire of the dragons, moving relentlessly to wherever we wish to be. This is the secret that has made us so successful, that we must demonstrate to the weaker-willed._

It was so poetic, it could've been Shakespeare. Unfortunately, death proved to be a very effective contradiction to bare words, particularly as the Aoyama head himself had a run-in with bad weather and certainly didn't end up where he meant to be. It would be humiliating for the same to happen here, now: "Died on a trek, en route to downtown. Cause of death: blood loss stemming from a lack of ergonomic shoes. May her soul rest in peace."

It was made even worse when she actually did reach the busier sections of Maijima City, and found the sidewalks to be packed with far more people she was accustomed to, outside a party. She had every mind to keep walking, but it would be even more embarrassing if she was crushed to death by their bodies or if she tripped and was trampled to death.

She only gritted her teeth, and then moved into the crowd. Her head was still held high.

That was another thing that her father had taught her._ The Aoyama is a prestigious line,_ _and those who still know not must learn. Proudly – but hold, not arrogantly – we distinguish from the common kin._

Again, these words of wisdom did nothing to prevent his eventual accident that left his family even worse off than the common kin, both financially and emotionally speaking. And he would weep if he could at finding that his lovely daughter had mutated his teachings beyond salvation, for Mio was being arrogant indeed, shoving aside all she could, and driving her heels sharply into the toes of those she could not.

Still, Mio kept these words to heart, finally breaking free from the crowd, her head held high. And she kept walking, down the road that wound through the city.

Even when her platform shoes finally broke apart, she simply tore them off and chucked them into a conveniently placed trashcan nearby, and then stepped back onto the road. Her socks ripped apart and scabs appeared on her feet almost instantly, but she kept walking.

Only a few metres away was the main store of a bread shop chain, including the stall that came to Mio's school to sell their _yakisoba_ special. They were busy at the moment. A woman in her thirties was busily taking orders left and right, and a single part-time employee was in charge of keeping all the displays of freshly baked, steaming, and quite appetizing bread in stock.

Mio walked past, her head held high. The city shrank behind her.

Standing up ahead, a little out of the way, was a hotel. It was seedy, it was cheap, and it hosted so many couples that it might as well be called a love hotel, which the owners would vehemently deny because that just rubbed some potential customers the wrong way. But the point was, they had rooms – lots of vacant rooms. And they had them for cheap. For free even, if the owner was feeling generous.

Mio walked past, her head held high. Signs of urbanization faded around her.

In an area surprisingly dominated by woods – though not that surprising, considering the historical Maijima – stood a Shinto temple, and in it, a well. The well was pretty old, and in a way sacred. The inhabitants of the temple started each day with a bath and a drink from it. It was one of their treasures, their revered sustenance – not that they would actually deny it from others, if they needed it.

Mio walked past, her head held high. The seaside loomed ahead of her.

Only once, she stopped. It was in front of a convenience store that was supposedly closed down. She had intended to keep on walking, but the front windows acted well enough as a mirror, and what she saw was terrible. She scowled at herself, brushed her hair the best she could, patted down her dirty clothes, and straightened her posture.

"Pride," she murmured. "Radiate _pride_."

And then she kept walking.

She kept walking even while gravel became littered with sand.

She kept walking even while the road started to incline.

She finally paused momentarily at the apex of a cliff that overlooked the ocean, when the road offered her the choice to turn. Going straight ahead would only mean she would hit the barricade at the edge of the road.

She walked straight ahead.

For a moment, she struggled with the white obstacle. She wasn't used to climbing structures, especially when it was higher than her waist. The last time she had ever used physical labour must be – what, when she was a toddler trying to get out of her crib? That brought forth fond memories; the crib had been expensive enough to rival a plasma TV.

And then suddenly, she was in the precarious position of being on top of the barricade, about to fall.

"Wait!"

She almost lost her grip right there. Her head whipped around, and of all the people who could've sen her, of all the people she was expecting to scold – she caught sight of Morita, her former chauffeur who had once abandoned her. His car was stalled on the road, the driver's door open. He must've followed her all the way down this road, watching her as she walked forward, head held high.

Her heart soared, and suddenly she felt happier than she had in a long, long time.

"Morita, you useless lump of cod!" she shouted, elated. "What took you so long? I was getting tired of waiting!"

He didn't rush over to her immediately. He probably thought he might accidentally push her off if he thoughtlessly moved towards her. He had crow's feet, and his eyes were bloodshot, like he hadn't slept well recently. But his eyes were alive, and shining with relief. Tentatively, his body relaxed, and he took one step towards her, reaching out with a hand. Asking her to take it.

Mio smiled. Her companion was back. It wasn't perfect, but her world was as complete as it was going to get. She couldn't possibly be any more uplifted.

"You lazy lug," she said fondly, shaking her head. "It's too late to ask for my forgiveness. You're going to have to make up for lost time." She smiled one last time, cattily. "But thank you. For coming back. Now, get your butt over here and follow me!"

Grinning, she turned back to the sea – and stepped forward, off the barricade.

Into air, hundreds of feet from impact.

Her head held high, all the way down.


End file.
